The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [61]
CHAPTER 24
Shakin’ the Dust of This Crummy Little Town Off My Feet
It’s true, right before you turn into a worm buffet, your whole life does flash in your mind like an old movie on the late show. I hope yours was better than mine. Prisoners would walk out of mine and gladly go back to their cell. Informants would rat out their mothers not to have to see it again. The big star was a miserable little elf, a real stinkeroo, and even I found myself hoping he’d get his. When Dingleberry and Santa showed up, the picture had some life to it, and you expected singing, but then the mopey star came back on the scene and it was time to go get some more popcorn. Rosebud only had a cameo appearance and I was sorry for that. I would have liked more scenes with her. Most of all, I wished the picture had a better ending. The fade-out was about to begin and then the credits would roll. I needed a twist ending.
Cut to a shot of the full moon.
Cut to a close-up of the star looking at the moon with a cocksure smirk on his face.
Now give the star a good speech.
I nodded at the partridge. “Have at it, birdbrain.” That kind of language won’t win any awards, but it kept the picture going.
The partridge didn’t seem to like my attitude. With a flick of his head, he signaled the swans to attack and they glided over, hissing like vampires. “Well aren’t y’all a bunch of ugly ducklings!” I said, but that only made them mad. The next second, a swan head butted me so hard, I saw little birds flying around my noggin. Before I could shake away the pain, one of the geese reached in and took a bite of my ear. HONK! The Five Golden Rings made it hard for me to move, so I tried to turn and dodge, knowing I had to stay on my feet. Once they got me on the ground, my goose was cooked.
The calling birds pecking my chest almost tickled, and for half a second I almost forgot about the lump growing on my head from another swan punch. But when the partridge slugged my other knee with that stick of his, I remembered to hurt. I felt like I had swallowed a running chainsaw and it was trying to get out. There was a punch here, a stab there, plus a lot of scratching and biting for variety. Above the dull thud of punches and goose honks, I could hear the crowd cheer. I strained to hear the orchestra warming up for the final credits music.
HONK!
THUD!
“Don’t look at me like I’m eating too much!”
“I wasn’t looking at you!”
“Then quit looking at that swan! You think she’s pretty?!”
WHACK!
HONK!
MOO!
Finally, a MOO. I might just make it out of Pottersville after all.
Ginger and the rest of the herd busted through the arena wall like it was milking time and the farmer had cold hands. Butter and the other magnificent seven milkmaids each rode on a big cow, whooping and hollering a stampede that ran over everything. Some of the drummers and pipers scrambled up walls to get out of the way. The lords’ leashes were cut loose and they began to bounce willy-nilly into the stands.
At the first sign of trouble, the birds had stopped using me as a piñata, but one swan in particular was especially hungry and he wasn’t going to let a little old stampede stop him. His neck coiled back like a rattle-snake and he aimed his beak at my head, but this time I was ready. As he struck, I put the chain between my hands in his way.
CLANK! The swan’s beak snapped the iron like it was made of paper. My arms were free and one swan was nursing a bent beak.
Another swan cocked his head back to attack, so I grabbed a couple of calling birds off my chest and aimed them at the swan. When the swan struck, I squeezed the calling birds by the neck and they pecked the swan’s eyes like they were on salary. The swan fell away and I tossed the two calling birds into the crowd. This was fun.
My feet were still shackled, so I hopped over to the French hens, tossing the other two calling birds at them like grenades. Being French, the hens skedaddled out of the way in a hot hurry and I slapped